


Nightlight

by Veto_power_over_clocks



Series: Decepticon Hot Rod AU [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Decepticon Hot Rod AU, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rated for thirsty boys that fantasize, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veto_power_over_clocks/pseuds/Veto_power_over_clocks
Summary: No matter what Deadlock says, this is an alliance. If he's not coming back, Hot Rod will find him.





	Nightlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to the AU in which Hot Rod's a Decepticon. On the previous fic, he asked Deadlock to become his ally, but Deadlock didn't see any point and only agreed to be Hot Rod's protector. Said alliance involved Deadlock marking Hot Rod so that everyone would know he's not alone. Hot Rod thinks this is some macho BS, because he _can_ take care of himself (*cough* survived in Nyon for years *cough*). Plus, he doesn't like the idea of not being allowed to protect Deadlock too. So, basically, Deadlock sees himself as Hot Rod's protector, while Hot Rod sees them as having an alliance.
> 
> Also? Hot Rod's pining. _Hard._
> 
> Mars? Squire? Have I told you lately that you're wonderful, beautiful, amazing, and that I'm really happy to have you in my life? This AU wouldn't have gotten beyond that first drabble without you two. I love you.

>>> SELF-DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE

>>> FUEL LEVEL: 74%

>>> DAMAGED OPTIC CIRCUITS. DAY VISION: 90%. NIGHT VISION: 6%

It’s become part of his routine since his optics got damaged: wake up, disconnect from the recharge slab, run a self-diagnostic, refuel.

He’d talked to Doctor about it when it happened, and the summary was that optic circuits are delicate and might take up to a year to recover if left to self-repair.

“The best thing you can do,” Doctor had said, matter-of-factly, “is get some new ones the next time someone dies. I can replace them.”

It was a reasonable suggestion. One of the advantages of their species is that so many of their body parts can be re-used, yet for some reason it feels darker to take someone’s eyes than it feels to take their hands or t-cog.

“I’ll see what I can find,” Hot Rod had said.

It’s been a calm month since then. Hot Rod is usually sent to small battles or on solo missions, so he gets to spend his time reviewing strategies, training and, sometimes, hanging around the medibay. Medics are the only constant in the base, so he might as well get along with them, although the only one willing to humor him when he drops by is Doctor.

Frankly, Hot Rod is bored out of his mind.

He sits on the edge of the berth and searches blindly for the light switch. When he finally manages to turn on the lights, he takes a moment to look around himself and assess whether or not there has been an improvement in his eyesight. He thinks he sees a bit more clearly than the day before, but that might be wishful thinking.

While on the topic of wishful thinking… maybe Deadlock will be on the base today?

Hot Rod smiles, he can’t help it. He smiles and touches the scar by his neck. The other thing that happened a month ago is that Deadlock marked him, a sign of their alliance. Or, well, of the alliance Hot Rod would like to have but which Deadlock doesn’t want to know anything about. So far, the only thing the mark means is that Deadlock has agreed to protect Hot Rod, but he’d insisted that he didn’t want Hot Rod trying to do anything for him.

Like that would stop him.

He traces the lines of the mark. Deadlock had bitten him there. Deadlock had pressed his mouth to that spot and he’d bitten, licked, and sucked, and since then Hot Rod has been unable to think of anything else. He thinks about how well Deadlock had fit there, about how he would have liked to keep him there, put his arms around Deadlock to keep him safe from the war. He thinks about how much he’d needed Deadlock to kiss him.

Hot Rod has barely seen Deadlock since then. Deadlock is always busy, or tired, or outright avoiding him. Hot Rod wishes he hadn’t noticed, but he can’t help it; there’s a corner of his brain that zeroes in on Deadlock as soon as he enters the room, and that corner of his brain notices how he tenses up slightly when he sees Hot Rod, how he keeps himself on the side of the room where Hot Rod isn’t, how he cuts conversations short. It’s probably because of the mark; he has already committed himself to making sure Hot Rod doesn’t get killed and must not want anything else to do with him.

It’s fine, though, and probably better this way. Deadlock doesn’t need to know about Hot Rod’s crush. He’ll be over it soon, anyway. Definitely. Yes.

He keeps touching the mark.

.

.

.

.

The last month of Deadlock’s life has been… interesting. That’s a very inaccurate understatement, but he doesn’t actually want to come up with a better adjective, because that would mean thinking about the situation.

For years, Hot Rod had been pestering him for an alliance of mutual protection. Last month, Deadlock had found Hot Rod half dead in a battlefield and he’d decided to protect him. He’d told himself that it was because Hot Rod was a self-destructive idiot that would get himself killed without supervision. He’d told himself that Hot Rod had to survive because the soldiers _liked_ him, and losing him would be bad for morale. He’d reluctantly admitted to himself that the idea of Hot Rod dying felt heavy on his spark.

Among the things Deadlock has learned is the fact that caring about someone is a terrible idea. People tend to die or betray you, and sometimes they do both things. He has spent years making sure that the only thing that matters in his life is the Decepticon cause; then Hot Rod had come along, treating everyone like they’re irreplaceable, risking his own life for others, and asking Deadlock about his day, and he’d managed to crawl under Deadlock’s plating. Hot Rod was a nuisance that seemed determined to find his way into Deadlock’s spark, and that was something Deadlock couldn’t allow.

It had gotten worse when Hot Rod had said, “I trust you.” Had Hot Rod understood what he was saying? He’d simply looked at Deadlock and said those words, he’d given them shape and sound so they could burn themselves into Deadlock’s brain module, and he’d acted like they were a banal statement, like he hadn’t just handed over his life to Deadlock.

He hadn’t known how to react, and then he’d been angry at Hot Rod for being such a fool, and furious at himself for knowing that this idiot now had a permanent hold on him, because who is he to betray that trust?

He’d wanted some sort of payback that day, to mess with Hot Rod a bit, and so he’d decided that the best way to mark him would be a bite. He’d hoped he’d back down and give Deadlock an excuse to never see him again. Failing that, he’d thought that at least it would be fun to tease him, to press his mouth to his neck and mark him like a lover would, take control of the situation, mock his own emotions and force them away.

Instead, that day has become his personal nightmare.

For a moment, he’d thought that Hot Rod would back away from the alliance; first because Deadlock was refusing to make it about mutual protection, then because of the biting. Instead, Hot Rod had decided to go along with it, because he’s a stubborn glitch that genuinely believes he’ll get what he wants in the end. And then… then Hot Rod had joked with him, and for a second Deadlock hadn’t felt alone.

That second had reminded Deadlock of _why_ he’d wanted to mess with Hot Rod. He’d challenged Hot Rod to back down and reached to trace a glyph at the base of Hot Rod’s neck, on that delicate, inviting point where the shoulder starts. He’d written his own name, marking him as his own before the actual marking, certain of getting a reaction, but Hot Rod had stayed perfectly calm and answered his question, looking directly into Deadlock’s eyes like he was daring him to pretend he didn’t know about Nyon, to pretend he didn’t understand Hot Rod.

He’d hated how calm Hot Rod had been, how he hadn’t seemed to mind being alone with Deadlock, how he’d been about to allow Deadlock to put his fangs near delicate neck cables without a hint of fear. He’d hated it, how Hot Rod continued to show he trusted Deadlock, how his brain had decided to play Hot Rod’s words (“I trust you”) on repeat. It had brought back that surge of protectiveness that had made Deadlock agree to mark him, and that’s what he’s still blaming for the way his thumb had started rubbing the spot he’d intended to bite, as if preemptively soothing the future pain.

Deadlock had put a hand on the berth to keep his balance as he leaned forward to press his mouth against the base of Hot Rod’s neck, and he’s haunted by how right he’d fit there, how the space between Hot Rod’s head and shoulder had felt safe, with the barely perceivable vibrations of Hot Rod’s engine reminding him that this was a person, that he was daring to associate safety with  _someone_. Perhaps he hadn’t been the only one to feel that way, because Hot Rod had relaxed instead of tensing up, bringing a hand to the back of Deadlock’s neck as if to keep him there, when he should have been pushing him away or demanding that he hurried up.

Right. He’d been doing that to tease. He’d remembered that and proceeded to scratch Hot Rod’s neck with the tips of his fangs, his efforts being finally rewarded with a shiver. He thinks of that now, of how it had felt against his mouth, against the hand he was keeping on Hot Rod’s arm, and he wonders what it’d be like to feel that with his whole body, what it’d be like to hold Hot Rod when he’s shivering with arousal.

That day, he’d told himself that it had been pettiness that had driven him to trace with his tongue the scratch he’d left. Nowadays, he wonders if he had again been trying to soothe the pain of the upcoming bite, motivated by the softness that Hot Rod has been slowly bringing back to Deadlock’s spark.

The hand Hot Rod had had on the berth had moved to hold Deadlock’s arm; he doesn’t know whether it was to keep his balance or to pull him closer, but it had felt like a victory. He’d barely had time to enjoy it, though, because Hot Rod’s other hand had gone to Deadlock’s finial to stroke it gently, tracing the edges in an agonizingly slow, delicious touch that had had Deadlock closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation fully. It had felt delicate and familiar, like the two of them had been in the same position a thousand times before, in another lifetime, and were now simply repeating known movements with the ease that only trust and care could give. It was more than pleasure; it was the sort of intimacy Deadlock hadn’t experienced since long before he’d changed his name.

It had taken a large part of his self-control to keep himself from making any sounds.

He wishes he hadn’t been so focused on his actions and that instead he’d paid more attention to what he was feeling and Hot Rod’s reactions. He wishes he’d memorized the path Hot Rod’s fingers had followed along his finial, or how it had felt when he’d finally bitten down on Hot Rod’s neck and the hand around Deadlock’s arm had tightened its grip for a second, while the one on his finial had gone still to avoid hurting the delicate area. Instead, what’s seared into his mind is how warm Hot Rod’s hands had been. Since then, he has woken up several times from dreams in which he feels the heat of Hot Rod’s plating against his lips, dreams in which Hot Rod’s warm hands explore Deadlock’s frame; dreams that Deadlock, once fully awake, turns into fantasies to which he touches his own frame and teases his own wires.

He’d intended to bite and let go, yet as soon as he’d lost the contact of Hot Rod’s plating he’d wanted it back. He’d been unwilling to move away, curious about the taste of Hot Rod’s energon and, though he doesn’t like to admit it, eager to soothe, so he’d immediately moved forward to lap at the energon coming out of the wound.

It had been warm, just like everything about Hot Rod. Warm and full of sun.

He should have moved away, but no, he’d stayed there, with his lips around the wound, softly cleaning it with his tongue, occasionally brushing it with his lips and sucking on it to check if any more energon was coming out.

Hot Rod should have pushed him away, but instead he’d resumed his caresses on Deadlock’s finial, like what they were doing was normal, and Deadlock had found himself _wanting_ , with an intensity that had scared him. He’s not allowed to want someone this badly, and even though he’d known that, it had taken all of Deadlock’s willpower not to ghost his lips along Hot Rod’s neck to kiss his jaw, not to move his hand from the berth to Hot Rod’s thigh, not to try to discover the many ways in which they might fit together.

There had been some words afterwards and Hot Rod’s fingers on the mark, the proof that he was Deadlock’s, and Deadlock wishing Hot Rod was his in a different way. There had been those same fingers resting tenderly over Deadlock’s chest plating, right above his spark, and Hot Rod asking, “Why are you so opposed to someone protecting you?”

Didn’t Hot Rod understand what he was doing? Apparently not, because then he’d turned his back on Deadlock and touched the mark again, traced it, and licked one of his fingers, and Deadlock had barely managed to leave the room instead of grabbing Hot Rod’s hand and taking those fingers into his own mouth.

He’s not proud to admit he has been avoiding Hot Rod since then. No matter what, there’s something wrong in fantasizing about someone that, for some reason, decided you were worth trusting. He has been mostly successful, but there was bound to be a day in which circumstances would force them together, and that day is today.

One day Deadlock will be important enough to only take orders from Megatron himself. Until then, he has to deal with a wide variety of commanders, from the ruthlessly efficient to jokes like Windjammer, who is feeling unfortunately proactive today and wants to launch an attack on Ater, for which he needs every soldier he can find.

Everybody knows that attacking Ater is a waste of time and resources, considering that it’s too far away from any strategic areas, barely has any resources (to the point that its own inhabitants have abandoned it), and the Autobot presence in it is big enough that you’d better take a battalion to try to claim it.

This is why Windjammer should not be allowed to make decisions. Unlike other scheming bastards with too much power, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only managed to climb through the ranks by being in the right place at the right time.

Hot Rod finds Deadlock before the briefing starts, stands next to him against the wall.

“Hi. It’s been a while,” he says, smiling at Deadlock like he hasn’t noticed him avoiding him.

“Yes. I’ve been busy,” Deadlock says, wondering how odd it’d look if he stepped away. He can feel the heat of Hot Rod’s frame without touching him, and it reminds Deadlock of what it had been like to have him caged between his arms, of what it had been like to hide his face in the crook of his neck with the excuse of a branding. It reminds him of every dream he’s had since then.

“Sure,” Hot Rod says, amused and skeptical, and Deadlock doesn’t bother trying to convince him.

Hot Rod’s the one who raises his hand at the end of the briefing to question why Windjammer thinks attacking _Ater_ is practical, and for a moment Deadlock worries that his first official action as Hot Rod’s protector will be to fight an angry commander.

Instead, Windjammer gives a speech about how his tactical genius made him reach the conclusion that this was an excellent idea. He’d said more, but it all boiled down to a lot of words that meant nothing.

“It’ll be a massacre,” Hot Rod mutters on their way to the shuttles. “We both know it.”

He knows he shouldn’t ask. He knows it’s a terrible idea to ask, but he does so anyway.

“Do you have any ideas?”

In an ideal world, Windjammer would have dropped dead on the spot and their current problem would have been solved. But, well, in an ideal world the war would have been unnecessary, so Deadlock has no illusions about the life he’s living.

Hot Rod presses his lips tightly and darts a hateful look towards Windjammer.

“Let’s look after each other and decide after the battle,” he says, so quietly that Deadlock can already tell that the eventual solution won’t be good for Windjammer. He tries to care and fails.

Buffoons like Windjammer cost battles, and a single battle might cost them the war.

.

.

.

.

There’s no reward for stating the obvious, especially when you got ignored the first time around, so Hot Rod doesn’t comment on the massacre going on around him and instead focuses on getting himself and Deadlock out of it alive. Bonus points if he manages to save whoever’s still alive.

He has managed to gather a small group of soldiers and defend a run-down building. It’s not glorious, but it’s something. Specifically, it’s a ‘something’ with a very clear, very unblocked escape route. The whole ‘staying alive’ part of his plan requires an escape route. What it also requires is permission to escape, but Windjammer is somewhere out there, and they can’t retreat unless he says so or dies.

The other problem with his great plan is that Deadlock isn’t with him. He must be fine – some mediocre Autobots shouldn’t be able to hurt him, no matter how many of them there are – it’s just that Hot Rod feels better when he sees where he is.

He looks to the sky. This planet’s sun is starting to go down. Staying alive will be much harder at night.

He looks to the streets and catches sight of dark grey fin. He knows what to do.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells the soldiers as he walks to the door. Then he pauses. “Actually? If I’m not back in fifteen minutes I want you guys to go back to the base, no matter what.”

“But…” one of the soldiers begins, and closes his mouth. Hot Rod makes an effort to remember his name, he knows he has seen him before.

The soldier – about Hot Rod’s size, white but for some pale pink lines that go all over his frame, optics covered by a pale pink visor – purses his lips and nods before slowly, dubiously, saying, “Very well, sir. We hope you return.”

“Thank you…” _Come on, Hot Rod, you_ know _his name_. “Banshee.”

Did he get it wrong? Please, no. _Please let that be his name._

A small, pleased smile flashes on the soldier’s face. Hot Rod smiles at him and, still happy with his small success, keeps smiling at everyone on his way out.

Once on the street, he sets his timer.

The wind howls through the streets muffling the sounds of battle and, more importantly, Hot Rod’s footsteps. It’s an unnecessary precaution, everyone too busy fighting to pay attention to Hot Rod making his way through the shadows and the rubble, but he’s not taking any risks. He hides behind what’s left of a wall and surveys the battlefield. Dead soldiers everywhere, but there seems to be a similar amount of fallen Decepticons and Autobots. It gives him some relief – they died, but they managed to take someone down with them; a somewhat less pointless death than he’d feared. He recognizes some of the Decepticons and hopes what he’s about to do is enough to save all of them. He can’t find Deadlock among the fighters and clings to the fact that he doesn’t seem to be among the dead either.

Despite how much it pains him, the soldiers and Deadlock aren’t a priority. He spots Windjammer trying to stab an Autobot in the head and raises one of his arms.

Ready.

Aim.

Fire.

The body collapses on top of the struggling Autobot, who quickly pushes it away. Hot Rod only watches long enough to ensure Windjammer isn’t getting up again and leaves his spot, moving through the shadows again to come out into the light a few meters away yelling, “Windjammer is down! Decepticons, retreat!”

The soldiers’ relief travels over the battlefield in a wave, everyone’s fields almost in sync. Hot Rod can’t be proud of what he just did, but he knows he’d do it again without hesitating. He runs around the battlefield, instructs everyone to share the order through comms and returns to the building Banshee and the others are defending.

“Windjammer is dead!” He runs into the room, signaling for everyone to follow him. “Retreat! Come on!”

The survivors pile into the shuttles, ready to go. Nobody thinks to question what right he has to give any orders. If things go wrong, they can always blame him for making them leave the fight.

Hot Rod looks around. No sign of Deadlock.

He waits, tapping on the mark on his neck.

The shuttles start leaving. No sign of Deadlock.

He waits, tracing the mark. Deadlock will appear soon, walking like he has all the time in the world, demanding to know who gave the order to retreat, smirking in that way that shows just a bit of fang and which tells Hot Rod that the fight went well.

There’s only one shuttle left and the soldiers in it are begging Hot Rod to get in so they can leave.

He looks to the sky. It’s getting dark. If what he knows of Ater is right, he has only about an hour of light left.

“Go,” he says, stepping out of the shuttle.

“Sir?” Banshee says, a hand stretching as if to grab him.

“I have to find Deadlock.”

“Sir, if he hasn’t returned…”

“He could be injured. I have to find him before the Autobots do.” His tone is final, but it doesn’t seem to affect Banshee, who shakes his head.

“That’s not a good reason. We can’t lose both of you.” He speaks calmly, but there’s a hint of pleading in his tone.

Hot Rod huffs.

“It _is_ a good reason.” He points to his mark. “He’s supposed to protect me. And I’m going to look after him too.” Banshee shakes his head again. “Leave now, because I’m not going with you.”

Before anyone can stop him, he runs. Not his best idea; he ends up far from where he needs to go, but it stops the others from going after him, so it probably counts as a half-good one. He watches the shuttle leave and slowly makes his way to the battlefield.

There are Autobots inspecting the remains, collecting the corpses of their comrades. Why can’t Decepticons do the same? Their soldiers had served the cause and given their life for it, didn’t they deserve a proper ceremony? Or at least something better than to have their bodies rust in alien soil. Maybe they could be re-purposed; Doctor would love some spare parts.

 _Eyes._ Doctor had told him to get himself some eyes.

He hides far enough from the Autobots that they shouldn’t notice his presence, sits down and watches them. The light slowly disappears as the Autobots work, until all Hot Rod can see is the glow of the Autobots’ optics and he has to shut his off so they won’t give away his location. He listens attentively, hears them dragging away bodies, their quiet conversations, their heavy steps.

He waits for silence, hoping the Autobots won’t decide to search the nearby area for survivors. For a long time, the only movement Hot Rod allows himself is to trace the mark on his neck. Eventually, the only sound around him is the wind through the streets, but he keeps waiting as the temperature goes down and his joints start demanding he change position.

He has mentally gone through every song he knows at least five times by the moment he decides to risk it and leave his hiding spot.

Standing up, he turns on his optics, confirms that he can’t see anything, and turns them off again; there’s no point in wasting fuel on a sense he can’t use and that might give away his location to possible stragglers.

He rests a hand on the pillar behind which he’d been hiding and brings up a map of the city on his HUD. He marks his current location, the spots where he knows there was fighting, and those where he didn’t see Deadlock, then slowly starts walking, careful not to step on any of the bodies, his hands on any wall he can find to keep his balance.

Tentatively, he expands his field, trying to find Deadlock’s. He occasionally nibbles on his lower lip to keep himself focused.

If he wasn’t so worried, it’d be tedious. Walk a few steps, expand his field, and retract it. Walk a few more steps and repeat.

His foot catches on _something_ – a wing, a door, who knows? – and he falls in what sounds to him like a car crash. He gets on his knees and crawls away, unwilling to stop searching, ready to drop to the ground and play dead as soon as he hears someone coming. He crawls through the battlefield, becoming more daring as the hours pass and expanding his field to cover wider areas. He doesn’t know how many bodies he passes, how many he brushes on his way, how many he might recognize if he could see them. He doesn’t think about how one of those corpses might be Deadlock.

Nobody comes. He moves to the entrance of a side street he saw some Autobot soldiers run into and stands up. This time, his field brushes against someone’s and his spark spins faster and flares with hope. With a hand on the wall, he moves into the street, following the direction in which he thinks he noticed the presence. The street is strangely empty, his feet not hitting anything metallic as he walks. He expands his field again and, yes, there’s someone there, although he’s still too far away for Hot Rod to tell who it is.

His foot hits something and his hand reaches the end of the wall. He follows the edge of the wall and finds that just slightly above his head it’s in contact with a flat surface that’s parallel to the ground. _A doorway_. He reached a doorway and there’s someone on the threshold.

Spark still spinning quickly, he expands his field again. The mech at his feet is unconscious, his field is too close to himself for a conscious person, but Hot Rod recognizes it – colder than the average, sharp against his own, steady.

He kneels next to Deadlock and mutters an apology as he puts a hand on what he thinks is his leg and follows up the line of his frame. Hot Rod rests his hand over Deadlock’s spark and feels the energy humming below the surface, barely noticeable. His frame seems to be at a normal temperature. He moves his hand up to Deadlock’s neck and up to his head, where he carefully traces his features until his hand is in front of Deadlock’s mouth. He feels the warm air from Deadlock’s ventilations on his palm, proof that his frame’s fans are still working.

“Deadlock?” he whispers. “Deadlock, it’s Hot Rod. Can you hear me?”

No answer.

Deadlock is lying on the floor, half of his body inside the building, and all Hot Rod manages to do is drag him so his legs aren’t visible from the street. It’d be impossible for him to do more; besides, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He wishes he could see well enough to run a diagnostic, but he won’t risk connecting to the wrong port.

His options are waiting for daylight or trying to discover something through touch. He doesn’t know if Deadlock can wait that long.

He puts his hands on Deadlock’s head and starts searching for wounds.

.

.

.

.

It was the flash of red that caught his attention. A red spot on the battlefield where there should have been only shadows. A second of distraction that got him shot in the back. A second of distraction that got his head smashed against a wall. They left him for dead. He remembers trying to stay conscious.

His internal chronometer tells him it’s been six hours since he blacked out. His sensory feed tells him there are hands on his chest.

His left arm is raised and aiming before he has finished opening his eyes.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

It’s Hot Rod’s voice. Why was Hot Rod touching him?

“You have ten seconds to explain what you were doing,” he says coldly, pointing his guns to Hot Rod’s face.

“You were unconscious. I was checking for injuries,” Hot Rod replies calmly, like he doesn’t notice he’s literally staring death in the face.

Deadlock drop his arm. Keeping it up is exhausting. Hot Rod’s head turns sharply at the sound. He stays still for a moment before looking at Deadlock again. Almost. His head is slightly tilted to the side, so his eyes are focused on Deadlock’s chest.

A memory starts nagging at him: Hot Rod’s optics flashing a month ago, and his diagnostics saying he was suffering circuit damage.

He tries to sit up and finds that the world’s spinning and he doesn’t have the strength to lift more than his head, while an electric current runs down his limbs and makes him wince. Hot Rod’s hands hover over him, but he quickly moves them back as soon as they brush Deadlock’s plating. His worried eyes still aren’t fixed on Deadlock’s face.

“What are you-”

“I was trying to stand. We have to get out of here. The Autobots will find us.”

“They won’t,” Hot Rod says, shaking his head and looking at some spot next to Deadlock’s head.

Slowly, Deadlock raises his hand and puts it in front of Hot Rod’s eyes. There’s no reaction.

“Hot Rod,” he says carefully. “How’s your vision?”

A flash of guilt crosses over Hot Rod’s face.

This absolute _idiot_.

“Hot Rod.” He says it like an order, like a demand.

“90% day vision and 6% night vision,” Hot Rod says quietly.

“Numbers don’t say anything,” he grits out. "Tell me what that means.”

Hot Rod draws his lower lip between his teeth. Deadlock follows the movement. He could move his hand to the back of Hot Rod’s head and push him down so Deadlock can bite his lip for him.

“It means that I can’t see anything in complete darkness,” Hot Rod says quietly. “With some light, I can make out shapes.”

Deadlock looks around. Not a single light source.

“Why are you here?” Deadlock asks, trying not to raise his voice. “Hot Rod, what were you thinking?” He doesn’t care about the harshness of his tone. “Where are the others? As soon as morning comes you have to find them.”

“They left.” Hot Rod’s tone is worryingly neutral.

“Without you?” When Deadlock gets out of this planet, he’s killing everyone that came to this planet, starting with Windjammer.

“I told them to,” Hot Rod says defensively.

Deadlock gives him a questioning look, and then remembers that _Hot Rod can’t see him_.

“You better have a very good explanation for that,” he says coldly.

“Windjammer’s dead, so I gave the order to retreat. You never showed up, so I stayed behind to look for you.”

Deadlock opens his mouth and finds he can’t think of anything to say that won’t devolve into yelling. No matter how stupid he is, you don’t yell at the mech that has your life in his hands for the near future.

“ _Why_ ,” he manages to say.

“I told you, remember? I’m going to look after you.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious, like Deadlock should already know, like he shouldn’t be surprised.

“You’re _blind_.”

“I won’t be in the morning.” Hot Rod shrugs and grins, like that will fix everything.

“What if the Autobots return?”

“We’re wounded. Killing us would be wrong.”

Deadlock closes his eyes and sighs.

“You better be right, Hot Rod.”

“I really hope I am,” he says with a laugh. Deadlock opens his eyes to find him smiling softly. “Hey, Deadlock. Since you’re awake, can you run a self-diagnostic? I didn’t want to risk it with the ports,” he says, gesturing towards his own unseeing eyes.

The results aren’t good. His balance center needs to be recalibrated, and his motor system is having trouble sending signals, turning them into painful electricity. His left arm is the only unaffected limb. His fuel levels aren’t ideal, but he isn’t at risk of convulsing. The wound on his back isn’t leaking anymore. His systems might need to reboot unexpectedly, busy as they are with trying to fix the damage to his brain module.

Hot Rod’s expression turns grim at Deadlock’s words.

“I’m going to need you to run another diagnostic in the morning, okay? I want to know how you’re doing.” He moves from his kneeling position to cross his legs, and then to rest his chin on one of his hands. “I’m not sure how we can get out of here, but we should be able to make it at least a week. If we get desperate, I can surrender to the Autobots.”

“Don’t you dare,” Deadlock growls.

Hot Rod looks unimpressed.

“An unnecessarily dead Decepticon is useless to the cause,” he deadpans, although there’s an undercurrent of anger in his tone that’s made more obvious by the involuntary expansion of his field.

“I won’t demean myself-”

“Great, because I’ll be the one doing it to save you. Us. To save us.” He retracts his field and makes a dismissive gesture as he says, “So shut up. Your pride will be intact.”

Rage flares in Deadlock’s chest, soon replaced by confusion and worry.

 _To save you_.

He stares at Hot Rod’s determined expression, turns his head slightly to look at his clenched hands, and any remaining fury leaves Deadlock, leaving behind a simmering anger instead of the desire to hit a wall and stomp off.

“I could have been dead,” he says forcefully. When Hot Rod frowns, he adds, “You stayed behind for me, but I could have been dead.”

Hot Rod shakes his head and snorts.

“Nah, not you. You’re too good to get killed here.” He speaks with absolute confidence, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards. Deadlock wants to thank him for his trust, thank him for waiting for him, thank him for finding him.

“You should sleep,” he says instead, trying to soften his tone.

“Someone should keep watch,” Hot Rod replies.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re blind and I can’t move without getting dizzy or being in pain. We’re useless right now. Sleep so you can find us some fuel in the morning.” Hot Rod looks conflicted. “If it’s really that important to you, I’ll stay up.”

“What if you reboot while I’m asleep? Who’ll keep watch?”

“You really think you’ll make a difference?”

Hot Rod purses his lips. “…fine,” and, to Deadlock’s mild horror, lies next to him. “Goodnight, Deadlock,” he says quietly.

Several of Deadlock’s dreams and fantasies had ended like this, with an exhausted Hot Rod falling asleep next to him. They also tended to include Deadlock feeling completely satisfied and they always involved both of them being _safe_. None of them included this odd urge to bring his hand to Hot Rod’s face and trace his lips with his fingers, much less the desire to curl around him.

This is highly inconvenient.

.

.

.

.

For a moment, Hot Rod doesn’t want to wake up. According to his internal chronometer it should be morning already, but he’s afraid of opening his eyes and not being able to see anything, or of waking up and discovering that Deadlock died during the night. Both fears are irrational, and even if they had some basis in reality they’re not a good excuse to avoid the facts.

He sits up.

“Good morning,” Deadlock says. “Slept well?”

His eyes snap open. Deadlock looks scratched, dented and tired, but besides that he looks fine. Relief rushes over Hot Rod. He manages not to let it show.

“As well as it’s possible to sleep here. How was your night?”

“Boring. I had to keep watch for a reckless Decepticon that thought roaming a planet full of Autobots while _blind_ was a good idea.”

“You’ve kept your sense of humor. That’s good,” Hot Rod says, closing his eyes and nodding solemnly.

When he looks at Deadlock again, he seems unimpressed. He lets out a huff and closes his eyes.

“I ran another self-diagnostic. Everything’s the same, except for the fuel levels. I also rebooted once during the night,” he states.

Hot Rod takes the chance to examine him better. He doesn’t notice any new injuries, but he sees the tension in Deadlock’s face, his stoic expression at odds with his unnaturally relaxed frame, and listens to his ventilations, which are deeper than usual. Fuel-saving mechanisms. Hot Rod is sure that a fourth of Deadlock’s sensory nodes must be deactivated, and that his vision must be running at half its usual acuity.

Time to make himself useful.

He doesn’t bother with a self-diagnostic. He takes an energon cube out of his subspace and drinks half of it. Then he takes out another one and sets it on the floor.

“Want me to try to get you further into the building?”

Deadlock had been looking at the energon, but at Hot Rod’s words he raises his head slightly to look at the door, a hint of a wince on his face, and drops back. Hot Rod grimaces at the lack of care.

“There’s no point. You’d only waste fuel.” He turns to look at Hot Rod. “Are you going out?”

“Yeah, but later.” He raises the full cube so it’s in Deadlock’s line of sight. “Can you drink by yourself?”

There’s a moment that lasts an eternity. Deadlock looks at the energon with a neutral expression, then slowly his eyes drift to Hot Rod’s face, wariness seeping into his face, and he looks at the fuel again.

“That’s yours,” he says. “You should keep it for yourself.”

“I’ll scavenge for more. Plenty of bodies out there.” He shrugs and shakes the cube slightly. “Drink.”

“I have my own reserves.”

“Great. Can you get to them? I’m not rummaging in your subspace unless we’re desperate.”

“We’re stranded in an _enemy base_.”

“And you shared your reserves with me a month ago.” He smirks and teasingly adds, “It’s okay, Deadlock, I won’t tell anyone that this happened.”

There’s an emotion Hot Rod can’t decipher on Deadlock’s face as he raises his hand to take the cube. Is it just him, or is the way in which Deadlock’s fingers don’t brush Hot Rod’s almost deliberate? He has to push aside those thoughts when Deadlock’s grip on the cube loosens and it falls to the ground. Hot Rod is quick to reach for the energon, but most of the fuel has become a stain on the floor by the time he sets the cube upright. There’s only enough left for a gulp.

Hot Rod stares at the almost empty cube and pushes down the surge of panic that rises within him. It’s not his last ration. There are plenty of corpses out there to scavenge from. He’s not on the streets anymore, he’s not starving yet.

Yet.

He’s not going to think about that, he has to focus on Deadlock.

There’s no mistaking the rage on Deadlock’s face. For an instant, Hot Rod wonders if it’s directed at him, but then Deadlock’s still raised hand curls into a fist and his claws start digging into his palm.

“Stop that,” Hot Rod says forcefully, taking Deadlock’s hand and forcing his fingers to straighten. “You’re injured enough.”

Deadlock turns his furious gaze from the spilled fuel to Hot Rod’s face. Hot Rod lowers Deadlock’s hand and holds it firmly between his own, ensuring Deadlock can’t pull it away.

“If you want to hurt something, you can dig your claws into me,” he adds calmly.

Slowly, Deadlock’s hand relaxes, his fingers curving slightly against Hot Rod’s hand.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Deadlock growls.

“Well, it did. Now we know you need help with that too.” He lets go of Deadlock to pour the content of one of the cubes into the other one and moves until he’s kneeling right next to Deadlock’s head. “This is how we’re doing this,” he says, separating his legs until his thighs are perpendicular to each other, his knee directly behind Deadlock’s head. “You rest your head on my leg, and I help you with the cube.”

“That’s your energon. I’m not accepting it,” Deadlock says through gritted teeth.

“I’m not letting you starve.”

“I have reserves.”

“Great! We’re keeping them as reserves,” Hot Rod says lightly. “Drink the energon.”

“I wasted my ration. I’m not taking yours.”

“It was an accident.” He tries not to sound pleading. “You’re injured, you _need_ fuel.”

“You’ll go scavenging, right? You can give me energon when you return.”

“I don’t know how long that’ll take or how much I’ll find!” He also tries not to sound annoyed. “I can’t leave you like this, Deadlock. We’re allies, remember? I can’t just…” He makes a vague gesture. “I can’t, okay? It’s not how I do things.”

Deadlock glares. Hot Rod sighs and runs a hand down his face.

“A sip, at least,” Hot Rod finally says, resigned. “That’s what was left on the cube. Drink that.”

Deadlock studies his face, his look softening into simple scrutiny.

“Fine.”

Deadlock raises his head and Hot Rod moves his leg forward. Deadlock rests his head on it and Hot Rod puts one of his hands on Deadlock’s head. Then he takes the cube.

Immediately, Deadlock’s hand is on his, while his eyes don’t leave Hot Rod’s face. Deadlock sips on the energon and then pushes it away.

It would be easy to force the entirety of the cube’s contents down Deadlock’s intake; he’s too weak to put up a fight. He’s also trusting Hot Rod not to do something like that.

“Can I convince you to take another sip?” Hot Rod says.

Deadlock swallows and looks unimpressed.

“One sip won’t make a difference to me, but it might keep you functioning,” Hot Rod points out, his tone almost challenging. “Come on, Deadlock. Just one more.”

“Only one,” Deadlock says, and pulls the cube towards himself again. “No more until you’ve scavenged two whole cubes,” Deadlock says as he pushes the fuel away again.

“Fine, I guess,” Hot Rod says, setting the cube aside.

He sets Deadlock’s head on the ground again and grabs him by the arms.

“What are you doing?!”

“Hiding you better.” Hot Rod pulls Deadlock further into the building. “If somebody sees you, we’re dead. I’ll feel better if I know that you can’t be found by the first Autobot that decides to peek into this street.”

The only response he gets is a vague sound of disapproval. Victory! Now he only needs to find some fuel to keep this stubborn jerk from passing out.

Carefully, Hot Rod makes his way to the battlefield, hoping the Autobots haven’t decided to come back. He surveys the area, taking in the bodies and the rubble.

“There’s something grimly interesting about a dead planet.” He’d heard Doctor say something like that once, during one of the many afternoons he’d spent hanging out in the medibay. “And I can’t think of any planet that’s deader than Ater,” he’d added, meticulously cleaning a tool that resembled a buzzsaw more than any sort of medical device, his field radiating satisfaction after making it gleam.

Hot Rod hadn’t had time to think about it the day before, but looking at the destruction makes him agree with Doctor. Ater is comprised almost entirely of abandoned cities, which are slowly crumbling under the weight of the elements. Dead cities hold the reminders of millions of lives, forgotten people whose descendants are now somewhere out there, not even sparing a thought to the place that saw them rise. All around him there are signs of the mundane – traffic signs, ads, graffitied walls, pieces of furniture, carefully carved doors –, a memorial to the mind-numbing dullness of routine. The only way to tell what part of the destruction was the result of abandonment and what was a product of the recent fighting is to look for a corpse near the ruins, and then see if there are any scorch marks on the rubble.

He shakes his head. Too much philosophy. Hanging out with Doctor was a bad idea.

He breaks into a nearby building to look for something to carry the energon in. He knows that some species' hygiene routine consists on leaving themselves to soak in water inside lidless containers with a hole at the bottom; some odd version of an oil bath. He’s hoping the Aterians were like that.

Luck’s on his side.

The container isn’t clean; what looks like organic matter is stuck to the inside. If he wasn’t worried about fuel, Hot Rod would have burned it, but, as it is, he has to scrape it off and hope it’s not dangerous if in direct contact with his plating, and that whatever residue’s left in the container isn’t toxic.

He seals the hole in the container as best he can with what he finds, and looks around for something to put beneath the container to catch anything that might leak anyway, then drags everything out and approaches the nearest corpse. This one’s almost a minibot, a dark maroon memory stick with a name Hot Rod can’t remember. They’d never talked and it doesn’t matter now. Hot Rod kneels next to him and starts searching his subspace.

No energon, some rust sticks, a copy of ‘Towards Peace’. Soldiers going out without energon? They need to fix that.

He takes out a flexible tube from his own subspace and rips out the mech’s abdominal and chest plating, searching for his fuel pump. He connects the tube and sucks, then leaves the tube to drip inside the container. Hopefully, he’s going to fill a lot of those.

It’d be nice if his near future didn’t depend so much on hopes.

He spends a few hours on the same routine, going from corpse to corpse inspecting their subspaces, draining their lines, only stopping to take the full containers back to Deadlock or to get empty ones. It’s boring, but it keeps him busy. Hot Rod is mildly curious about the point at which he stopped thinking of scavenging as ugly work and started thinking of it as just another thing you had to do. Your tanks don’t care if the energon comes from a mine, a converter, or an old friend’s fuel lines; all that matters is staying alive another day, and that’s something Hot Rod excels at.

Deadlock agrees to drink half a cube after Hot Rod returns for the first time, despite Hot Rod’s attempts to convince him to take a whole one. He tries everything but force, yet Deadlock stubbornly insists on not taking more fuel than Hot Rod.

“You’re bigger than me,” Hot Rod says exasperatedly. “And injured!”

“And you have better chances than me of making it out of here. I’m not taking your energon.”

They go in circles, and in the end Hot Rod has to give up, because daylight’s limited and he has to return before the night comes.

Deadlock reboots at some point during the day. Hot Rod arrives to find him unconscious on his fourth trip back to their hiding spot. He’s still unconscious on his fifth trip. On the sixth one he checks him up. This isn’t normal. It’s been too long. A normal reboot never takes more than an hour, and that’s only in rare cases. A low-fuel one can take up to six, but Deadlock _had_ consumed energon, and there’s no way he burnt through half a cube in his current condition.

“Deadlock, what’s wrong?” he murmurs are he looks him over. His wounds haven’t changed. His ventilations are still slow and even. His cooling fans turned on at some point while Hot Rod was away. His eyes are closed, but when Hot Rod raises one of his eyelids he finds his optics are lit.

That isn’t normal either.

He looks down at Deadlock, considering. They hadn’t discussed Hot Rod running diagnostics on him, but this looks like a potential emergency. Deadlock might wake up and shoot off his head before he realizes what Hot Rod’s doing. On the other hand, lit optics during a reboot are never a good sign.

There’s still enough light left for Hot Rod to see what he’s doing. He searches along Deadlock’s left side for the cover to his interface panel and removes it carefully, setting it aside and making sure to remember the position he left it in, in case he has to replace it at a time at which he can’t see anything.

He takes out his diagnostics cable and connects it to Deadlock’s port.

“Please don’t shoot me if you wake up now,” he murmurs as he lowers his firewalls.

He doesn’t learn anything new about the wounds. He learns that Deadlock’s fuel levels are lower than they should. He learns that Deadlock’s current reboot is an absolute disaster, which explains the fuel levels. Actually, calling it a reboot is too kind, since Deadlock’s systems haven’t managed to shut down yet. One of the areas of his brain module is in the middle of some process, so the rest of his systems are trying to shut it down forcefully, which in turn is using up more energy than necessary and wasting fuel.

Deadlock’s stuck.

“Frag,” Hot Rod whispers. “Frag,” he repeats, a bit louder. “Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag,” he says, running a hand down his face.

At the rate it’s going, Deadlock’s fuel levels will reach a critical low in three hours. Things might sort themselves out in that time. If not, Hot Rod will need to figure out a way to refuel him.

He has one hour left of sunlight, so he sets to work. He distributes the energon into as many small containers are possible, and puts everything on one side of the room. Then he returns to Deadlock’s side to wait, his fingers tracing his mark without him really thinking about it.

Slowly, darkness comes.

“Deadlock?” he whispers once he stops being able to see.

When there’s no answer, he finds Deadlock’s optics by touch and raises an eyelid. The bright spot tells him that the attempted reboot is still in progress.

“You have an hour to wake up or I’m feeding you,” Hot Rod mutters, trying to sound threatening and coming out worried.

Hot Rod mentally goes through his inventory. He starts thinking of ways to get out of there. He goes through his favorite songs, tapping their rhythms against the mark on his neck.

“Deadlock?” he asks again after the hour passes. He lifts one of his eyelids and is once again greeted by the bright spot.

Slowly, he stands up and parts his chestplates to reveal his spark. As far as light sources go, it’s not ideal, but it’s enough for him to make out the outlines of the various containers. He slowly makes his way to one of the large ones and fills an empty cube, then returns to Deadlock’s side, covering his spark as he sits down. Just in case, he lifts one of Deadlock’s eyelids again. No change.

He sighs and considers. Since he’s effectively blind, there’s a high risk he’ll end up spilling the energon while trying to bring the cube to Deadlock’s mouth. He needs a hand to keep Deadlock’s head from moving to the side.

Hot Rod rests Deadlock’s head on his knee again to get him upright and grabs the cube. He doesn’t love the idea he has, but it’s the only one that should allow him to feed Deadlock without spilling anything.

He brings the energon to his lips and takes a sip, then sets the cube aside to force Deadlock’s lips apart. He leans down to put his mouth on Deadlock’s, doing his best to use his own lips as a seal to keep any energon from dripping down the side of Deadlock’s mouth, and using his hands to tilt Deadlock’s head back, ensuring the fuel goes down his intake.

Hot Rod straightens his back and reaches for the cube again.

It’s going to be a long night.

.

.

.

.

>>> REBOOT SUCCESSFUL

>>> FUEL LEVEL: 27%

>>> BALANCE CENTER IN NEED OF RECALIBRATION

>>> MOTOR FUNCTIONS DISABLED ON LOWER EXTREMITIES

>>> DAMAGED MOTOR PATHWAYS

>>> ENERGY-SAVING MODE ACTIVATED

>>> WELCOME BACK

The readout isn’t a surprise. Neither are the lips pressed against his own – he has dreamed of the same thing almost every night for the last month. Sometimes the dream starts with Hot Rod smiling at him, an invitation for Deadlock to put his mouth on that smile and taste it. Other times, he dreams of when he marked Hot Rod, sees himself being pulled onto the berth by him, finds himself crawling over Hot Rod’s frame to kiss him and touch him. Every now and then, the dream starts like this, with Hot Rod kissing him, and Deadlock is always happy to kiss him back.

He puts a hand on the back of Hot Rod’s head, guiding him into the kiss, and moves his lips against Hot Rod’s, his tongue just beginning to trace Hot Rod’s lower lip when Hot Rod moves away, pushing Deadlock’s hand down.

This isn’t how his dreams go.

Deadlock opens his eyes to find Hot Rod looking nervous, his eyes full of something Deadlock thinks might be fear.

Frag.

“Easy, it’s me, not… whoever you thought it was,” Hot Rod says with a weak laugh, looking in the general direction of Deadlock’s face, but not meeting his eyes.

“What were you doing?” he manages to ask calmly. If he sounds mad, Hot Rod doesn’t need to know _why_ that is.

“Your fuel levels were low and I was trying to…” He makes a vague gesture. It’s then that Deadlock notices the energon dripping down Hot Rod’s chin and the wetness down his own. “I needed my hands to keep you upright,” he says matter-of-factly.

Deadlock quickly checks his readings from the last few hours. He’s been stuck in a bad reboot for most of the day, burning fuel like a sparkling.

“I told you-”

“I know,” Hot Rod says, raising a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “But _I_ told you I wouldn’t let you die. Stop fighting me, Deadlock; I’m not your enemy.”

Hot Rod is right. Deadlock takes advantage of his slightly raised position to take a look around the room, noticing the new containers. They should survive a few days with that, perhaps a couple of weeks if they ration the energon well and he doesn’t have any more bad reboots.

“Fine. I’ll drink the cube,” he says, defeated, except… Hot Rod’s face lights up at the words. The smile he hasn’t seen since before they landed on this dumpster of a planet returns to his face for a moment, and it feels like it’s the first time Deadlock is seeing it. In a way, it _is_ the first time: now he knows it’s genuine and that he made it appear. He knows he can make Hot Rod smile like that, like everything’s right for a second.

“Here,” Hot Rod says, raising the cube and bringing it close to Deadlock. “You’ll have to guide me, since I can’t see.” He laughs awkwardly and adds, “No kissing this time!”

Deadlock is suddenly grateful for Hot Rod’s blindness, because it takes him a moment to hide his emotions. It’s one thing to dream and fantasize about someone while thinking it’s never going to happen, and another one to understand that it’s never going to happen. Until this very second he hadn’t known that he actually wanted it to happen.

“Sorry about that,” Deadlock says, helping Hot Rod with the cube and drinking.

“It’s okay,” Hot Rod says lightly. “You must have been dreaming. So… who did you think you were kissing?”

Deadlock keeps drinking, the silence stretching as he empties the cube.

“That’s private,” he finally says as he pushes the empty cube away.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Hot Rod presses his lips into a thin line. “I was just curious. I mean-” He lets out the awkward laugh again, and Deadlock hates it. “You took me by surprise.”

“I’m sorry about it. It won’t happen again,” Deadlock says solemnly. “I promise.”

Hot Rod carefully lowers Deadlock’s head to the ground.

“I guess not,” he says, without emotion.

Then he stands up and-

“What do you think you’re doing?” Deadlock asks, trying not to sound panicked as Hot Rod’s chestplates part.

Hot Rod turns to him looking like he doesn’t understand why Deadlock’s asking.

“I need to refuel too. With this,” he says, pointing at his spark, “I can make out the shapes.” He shrugs. “It wouldn’t do to trip and spill the energon.”

“Can’t you turn on your headlights?”

“They’re too bright. Someone might notice them from outside.”

He gets a cube for himself, his spark bared the entire time, and Deadlock can’t look away, every dream and fantasy he has had paling in front of the reality of Hot Rod’s spark, shining in front of him without its owner realizing what it means. Here is Hot Rod, using the core of his being like it’s some cheap lightbulb, when it should be kept safe, hidden from unworthy eyes. It’s Hot Rod’s spark, and for some reason he concluded that Deadlock deserved to see it.

Hot Rod sits down next to Deadlock with his cube.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, signaling at his chest. “I feel better if I can see something, even if it’s not much, but I can cover it up.”

“Don’t,” Deadlock says too quickly. He gives himself a second to calm down before adding, “Don’t bother yourself for me. I’m fine.”

He’s better than fine. He’s fascinated. He wants to fall asleep under this light.

“Thanks,” Hot Rod says with a grin. Deadlock knows that from now on he’ll be haunted by the memory of Hot Rod’s smile under the glow of his spark.

He watches in silence as Hot Rod drinks, noticing that his free hand is at his neck, over the mark he’d left. He wishes that meant something. He wishes that meant Hot Rod wants him just as much as Deadlock wants him.

Hot Rod finishes his cube and puts it away in his subspace, then he covers his spark and lies down next to Deadlock.

“Time to sleep. I still have some scavenging left to do,” he says, turning his head to face Deadlock.

Deadlock has yet to take his eyes off him.

A month of wondering what it’d be like to kiss Hot Rod’s smile. A month of wanting Hot Rod tracing the edges of his armor, pressing that smile into Deadlock’s neck and giving everything to him. A month of wanting Hot Rod to touch him, only for a small show of trust to change everything.

He wants Hot Rod moaning. He wants him chasing even the softest touch, wants him crying out Deadlock’s name. He wants Hot Rod arching his back, eyes closed as Deadlock bites down on his neck, as Deadlock presses all the right spots, as he sends pulse after pulse, making Hot Rod overload.

He wants Hot Rod telling him he loves him, kissing him slowly and tenderly, smiling down at him like he’s Deadlock’s personal sun.

More than anything, he wants Hot Rod to be safe. He never wants to see Hot Rod afraid around him again.

“Give me your hand,” he says, an idea suddenly forming in his mind.

“What?”

“Your hand,” he says impatiently. “Give me one of them.”

Hot Rod sits up and tentatively reaches for Deadlock with his right hand. Deadlock takes it.

“I’ve been thinking about today. We don’t know how long we’ll be here or how many more bad reboots I’ll have. You should know what to do if you need to check me up at night.” Slowly, he brings Hot Rod’s hand to the cover of his interface panel. “You should learn it by touch.”

Hot Rod’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. If he asks, Deadlock will tell him that this is a necessary measure. If he had to be honest… what can he say? Hot Rod had gone and trusted him, and in the process he’d forced his way into Deadlock’s spark. This is the least Deadlock can do to repay that trust.

Every interface array is slightly different. Each port and cable is color-coded, and they’re always in the same order, but sometimes the distribution makes it easy to skip one if you aren’t looking. Nobody wants a diagnostics cable connected to their energy port or, worse, an energy cable connected to their sensory data port.

Hot Rod brings his other hand to Deadlock’s cover, removes it carefully, and waits. Deadlock takes Hot Rod’s hand again and guides his fingers towards the topmost port. “Energy,” he says, pressing the pad of Hot Rod’s index finger into it. He moves that finger to the side until in falls into the next port. “Diagnostics.” Hot Rod slides his finger up and down that port, a look of concentration on his face. He moves towards the energy port again and returns to the diagnostics one. Deadlock guides Hot Rod’s finger towards the next port. “Information.” Hot Rod nods and traces the three ports he has been shown.

“Energy,” Hot Rod says, tracing that port. “Diagnostics,” he continues as he moves towards Deadlock’s hip. “Information,” he finishes when he reaches the third one.

“There’s no need for you to know the next one,” Deadlock says, trying to joke. The port that would allow Deadlock to share Hot Rod’s sensory input.

“True,” Hot Rod says, his tone matching Deadlock’s. “Hey, maybe you can show it to the mech you were dreaming about!”

“I don’t think so.” Deadlock does his best not to let any emotion show, keeping his field as close to himself as possible.

He lets go of Hot Rod’s hand and watches him replace the cover of his panel. Then Deadlock adjusts the cover; it always ends up a bit loose when somebody else puts it back.

“Let’s hope I don’t have to use this knowledge,” Hot Rod says as he lies down again. After a pause, he adds, “Goodnight, Deadlock. See you,” he snorts, “in the morning.”

“...seriously?”

“If you can’t laugh at these things, there’s something wrong with you,” Hot Rod teases, turning his head to face Deadlock.

Soon, he’s asleep.

Even without touching him, Deadlock can feel his warmth, and he aches to reach for it, feeling the phantom touch of Hot Rod’s hands on him from when Deadlock had marked him. He will have to go on with that memory, doing his best to ensure that Hot Rod never notices how Deadlock burns.

.

.

.

.

It takes Hot Rod an eternity to fall asleep. He stays still and shuts down his ventilations, giving the illusion of rest as his processor runs the memory of Deadlock’s kiss on loop, occasionally reproducing the memory of the marking.

By the time he manages to lose consciousness, he’s frustrated and hurt.

It’s not better in the morning.

“You look tired,” Deadlock remarks, frowning, after he has finished refueling.

“Bad dreams,” Hot Rod says quickly, putting away the cube to avoid looking at Deadlock. His only comfort is that, most of the time, that answer would be true.

“Ah.”

Hot Rod glances at Deadlock, who is looking at him seriously, concerned, and Hot Rod’s spark spins faster. For some reason, Deadlock cares.

“I’m going out now,” Hot Rod says, standing up and gesturing towards the door. “I’ll try to be back soon.”

“Pfffft. You think I’ll get lonely?” Deadlock says, smirking.

“I think you might miss my wonderful company,” Hot Rod replies jokingly, grinning.

“You wish,” Deadlock says in the same tone, making a shooing gesture.

 _If you knew_ , Hot Rod thinks, walking out the door, his fingers reaching for the mark on his neck.

He spends the morning in a bit of a daze, his processor too busy with the memory of Deadlock’s mouth moving against his own, Deadlock’s hand on the back of his head, Deadlock’s tongue brushing his lower lip.

“Get it together,” Hot Rod mutters, rubbing his face with his hands. “He doesn’t want you.”

That should be enough to make him stop thinking about it, right?

No.

He’s stuck on it. On how soft Deadlock’s lips had been, how gentle his touch as he guided Hot Rod. He allows himself to imagine that it was _him_ that Deadlock had been dreaming of, that after opening his eyes and seeing Hot Rod, Deadlock would have wanted to continue kissing him. He wonders how it would have been if Deadlock had been able to move. If he’d have held Hot Rod close. If he’d have trailed kisses down his neck. If he’d have guided Hot Rod’s hands to the right spots in his armor, and allowed Hot Rod to explore and map every millimeter of his frame.

Yeah, that’s a terrible line of thought and he has to stop immediately. The worst part is that once again he has started tracing the mark. At this rate, Deadlock will find out about his feelings.

He goes back to scavenging, focusing on spare parts. Any gutter mech knew their way around a corpse, how to identify a piece in good condition and extract it; the problem was finding someone skilled enough to do a replacement if you needed it. He couldn’t really be happy about a war, but he should really thank Primus every day for the luxury of having a medic around.

Primus, he misses the base’s medics right now, even though he’s sure that Doctor will kill him with his bare hands and dismantle him for parts if they ever manage to return to Pache.

“Why all this?” Deadlock asks, halfway through the afternoon, looking at the growing pile of spare parts. So far they have a dozen fuel pumps, seven t-cogs, and about three dozen optics.

“They’re for Doctor. He’s always complaining about resources,” Hot Rod says, shrugging. “This should keep him happy for a few days.”

Deadlock looks pensive for a moment before saying, trying to contain an amused smile, “I once stole some Autobot medical equipment. I thought he was going to hug me. He’ll probably ask you to become his conjunx if you give him this.”

“Only if he forgives me for staying here,” Hot Rod says lightly.

Deadlock’s expression darkens.

“You really shouldn’t have done it,” he says quietly.

“This again?” Hot Rod can’t help but sound defensive.

“Yes. Again,” Deadlock says forcefully. “What’s the point of asking me to protect you if you won’t protect yourself?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing I might have left you here to die,” Hot Rod replies in the same tone.

“It was reckless.”

“But you were alive.” He lowers his voice and, full of conviction, adds, “I’d do it again, Deadlock, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

Deadlock’s face contorts slightly, like he’s having trouble holding his expression, before he huffs resignedly and turns to look at the ceiling.

“How can I convince you not to?” His voice is soft; under different circumstances, Hot Rod would have thought it sounded sad.

“You can’t. The best you can do is stay safe and come back-” _to me_ , he wants to say. “Just come back and I’ll never again risk myself trying to save you.”

“You know that I can’t ensure that.”

“I don’t care.” Hot Rod shakes his head. “If you don’t want me looking after you, don’t give me reasons to do it. This is an alliance, Deadlock, no matter what you want to believe.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn…” Deadlock shuts his eyes tightly and brings his hand to his face.

“Why do you care?” Hot Rod asks quietly, watching him.

Deadlock lowers his hand and looks straight into Hot Rod’s eyes.

“How am I supposed to protect you if you go after me when I’m hurt?”

“In those cases you’ll have to leave the protection thing to me.” Hot Rod gives him a half smile that, thankfully, Deadlock returns.

“We’re never going to agree on this, are we?”

“No. Deal with it.” His half smile becomes a full, smug one that has Deadlock glaring at him. “Break’s over,” Hot Rod decides, standing up and heading for the door.

“Be careful,” Deadlock says.

“I’m always careful!”

His reply is a snort.

He’s still on the street when he receives a private comm.

::Sir. This is Banshee. Prepare for extraction.::

Hot Rod stares.

::What?:: he replies.

::We came back for you. But we have to be fast.::

::I found Deadlock. I need help moving him. I also have spare parts and energon.::

There’s a long pause before he receives an answer. Then he’s going back into the building.

“They came back for us!” he tells Deadlock, smiling. “Banshee and some others. They’re here for us.”

“It could be a trap.”

“Still better than our current condition,” Hot Rod says with a one-shouldered shrug.

The soldiers arrive soon to help carry Deadlock and the scavenged resources to their shuttle.

It’s a small shuttle. The sort that’s only used for solo missions, or to carry specific supplies. The kind of shuttle that bored soldiers take on joyrides because they know they won’t be missed.

“Does anybody know you’re here?” Deadlock asks, eyes narrowed. He’s probably thinking the same thing Hot Rod is.

“Does Doctor count?” Banshee asks sheepishly.

“No.”

“…then no.”

“Why are you here?” Hot Rod asks, trying not to accidentally hit anyone while sitting down.

“Because Doctor heard you’d stayed behind and he said he was ashamed of us for allowing a soldier to sacrifice his life stupidly, and that we better get our afts back here and see if you’d made it.” He shudders. “And that if you hadn’t, we should get him your corpse to dismantle it for pieces.”

“Charming,” Deadlock deadpans.

The ride back is uneventful. The welcome committee consist of Doctor (who is thankfully placated by the spare parts, to the points that he hugs Hot Rod at the sight of the fuel pumps) and someone from the communications room, a small mech called Thunderbird that spends his few minutes in the shuttle bay rolling around Hot Rod and asking him how he’d managed to survive.

Hot Rod’s optic nerves replacement is delayed to deal with Deadlock.

“How in Solomus’s name did you manage to get yourself into this condition?” Doctor says as he disconnects his diagnostics cable from Deadlock. “I’m impressed. If this was peacetime, I could write about you to a journal…”

“Har har.”

“I’m serious. This would get me plenty of recognition.” He turns to Hot Rod and, tilting his head slightly, asks, “Are you staying or going? I have work to do here and it’s not pretty, so if you don’t want to see the insides of your friend, you should get out.”

That sounds disturbing. Deadlock looks a bit sick.

“You could wait outside,” Deadlock says, turning to look at him.

“Wha-?” Hot Rod closes his mouth and tries again. “Oh, I thought you’d tell me to go.”

 _This doesn’t mean anything_ , he tells himself. _It also doesn’t mean anything that he didn’t object to being called my friend._

“You can do that if you want to.”

“No, I… I think I’ll wait outside.” Hot Rod points towards the door and takes a step back.

Deadlock nods and fixes his gaze on the ceiling.

Hot Rod sits outside the medibay, tuning out the sounds of machinery and tools, going through every song he knows so many times he loses count, tracing the mark as he waits. He gets up to pace every now and then. It feels like an eternity, but he’s there when Doctor opens the door to tell him Deadlock is fine and should be waking up soon.

“He’s rebooting. Again.” He sighs. “Brain modules are a pain, but his balance center has been recalibrated, all nerve circuits are working properly, and he no longer has a hole on his back.”

“You’re great, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Hot Rod.” He can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you want to see him? I’m not working on you until tomorrow, and I think he could use the company.”

Hot Rod doesn’t answer. He just walks back into the medibay, where Doctor guides him towards Deadlock’s berth and leaves him alone to wait.

When Deadlock wakes up, Hot Rod smiles at him.

Deadlock smiles back. It’s a small smile, but it’s there, and that’s all Hot Rod needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are always appreciated and comments are loved and cherished because they make me happy. If you liked this fic and feel like promoting it, would you reblog [this post](https://veto-power-over-fanworks.tumblr.com/post/184815650475/nightlight) ? Thank you!
> 
> Fun fact: I wrote this fic around the same time as "Declaration of intent".
> 
> Regarding the mark Hot Rod keeps talking about: long ago I read [this (very good) starjack fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989198) that gave the idea that Decepticons established protection chains, and that they marked those under their protection as a way to indicate that those mechs should Not Be Messed With. That bit of worldbuilding was really cool and ended up finding its way into this universe (and playing a big part in it). If you want to read about Deadlock marking Hot Rod, the fic is "[Crash and burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559308)".


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